


Symphony

by Jaune



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Human Trafficking, M/M, Mates, Mutual Pining, References to Drugs, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-07-25 19:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16204544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaune/pseuds/Jaune
Summary: 'Some people deserve soulmates,' Matt thinks, 'just... not people like me.'But that's okay, because he can ignore the call to bond. He can.(He can't.)And thus- story in which people and hearts are stolen: not necessarily in that order and not necessarily returned whole.





	1. Your Heartbeat is a Symphony

**Author's Note:**

> Although I said I likely wouldn't post any other multi-chapter fics while working on TEFS, I... lied.

There's nowhere in the world that smells like Hell's Kitchen, Matt's sure of it. 

Matt's patrolling near the harbor tonight. The stench of the pier—the wet soil, water dirtied with engine oil and other sewage from the city, the waterlogged wood of the docks—almost overtakes the miasma of the city itself—people, both perfumed and unwashed, exhaust from vehicles, vapor from sewers, aromas from vending carts—but instead mixes together to create a scent Matt is sure he would know anywhere. At night, Hell's Kitchen lights up and the scent changes; it gets hotter, all those filaments burning, trying to illuminate shadows in the cloying darkness.

"… containers ready... don't know... biggest haul we've ever... the most manpower..." A man is talking, and the footsteps on tell him there's more than just one. 

They're coming his way. Matt slips behind a shipping container, but presses close to the metal. His claws aren't extended yet, but they just a thought away, ready in case he needs to scale the container. Matt wants to call up the more enhanced auditory senses afforded to him by his shifted form, just a partial shift, but he knows it won't help this time; it'll just hone in on a singular heartbeat that's all the way across the city, and drown out everything in between. He had hoped time and distance (and denial) would make his control better, help his senses to forget the way they had imprinted, but it's just his luck that it's only gotten worse.

Father Lantom calls his kind the "blessed" ones. Matt thinks it's ironic. The devil of Hell’s Kitchen, blessed. Some species of shifters have enhanced senses, but a rare few are so enhanced that their senses involuntarily choose a mate for them. Separate from any conscious decision, their senses are able to pick out one person from everyone they have ever met and definitively choose their mate. Once their body has chosen and confirmed that they are unmated, the shifter imprints and that's it. It's their mate or no one at all, forever. 

Matt had known it could happen to him. He had just hoped that it never would.

Now that the men are closer, Matt can tell that there are three of them, likely guards from how fearlessly they are walking around the place at night. A little closer and he'll be able to scent them more clearly. He'll be able to tell if any of them are armed.

One of the men laughs, low, at what the other one has said.

“How do you know?” One of them asks, “that it’s the largest shipment they’ve ever had?”

Matt’s scaling the container now. This sounds important and he does not want them to see him and cut the conversation short. 

“Look at all these containers.” The first guard responds. “Like I said, they’re all empty. But they’ll be full and shipping out in no time.”

“Full of?”

The put-upon sigh of the first guy, the one who seems to have all of the information, implies that he has already answered this question, but it’s a boon to Matt. “People, you idiot. I don’t like to repeat myself. Fucking listen.”

Shock almost makes Matt lose his footing. Matt had not been counting the containers when he had entered the yard next to the pier, but he was sure there had been at least ten containers, maybe as much as twenty, and all empty. Matt is unsure how many people could be crammed into each one, but he assumes somewhere between 20 and 50 people could fit in each container. If they are planning to fill each of these containers full of people, that is… a lot of people that they are planning to smuggle through his city.

Matt retracts his claws and reaches for a rung near the top of the container, planning to swing himself up onto the top and continue surveilling the men from above. Not even halfway through the leap, he knows he’s made a mistake. Matt feels the rusted rung give way mid-leap. He’s able to correct his trajectory enough that he doesn’t fall to the ground or injure himself, but his landing on the top of the container is rough and loud.

It alerts the guards, and they come after him. The loudmouth one isn’t armed, but one of the other guards has a revolver. Matt wants to interrogate them further, find out what the plans are regarding the people they are planning to traffic through the pier, and which organization or family is behind the entire operation. 

Matt knocks one of the guards unconscious during the scuffle, as incentive to convince the other two to talk. It's the one with the gun, which he disarms and tosses away so that neither of the other men can try for it. A few seconds later, he hears a splash as part of it lands in the inlet behind them.

Matt’s question, “Either one of you gentlemen want to tell me who you work for?” is only met with more agitated yelling and no direct answers. This is a problem that he can fix.

Matt incapacitates the second guard by knocking his feet from underneath him. Matt judiciously connects a kick to the back of the guy’s head and the guard stills, unconscious.

Matt knocks the third guard out… on accident. He was supposed to be interrogating that one, but he had knocked the guard’s head against one of the containers a bit too firmly. The guard is out like a light. Matt represses a sigh. 

The noisy yelling of the guards has caught the attention of more security, who are now coming at Matt from all angles. They aren’t nearly as trained in martial arts as he is, of course not, but the sheer number of them is a great enough problem that Matt gets only mostly unscathed.

When Matt settles into his bed that night, apartment silent except for the buzzing of electricity from the huge billboard outside his window and the sound of a single heartbeat from all the way across town, he knows he’ll have bruises in the morning.

Matt initially does not realize that he’s dreaming. He’s in a bed that smells like him, mostly, a little bit like Foggy and other Foggy adjacent scents. He realizes he’s in the dormitory at Columbia. More importantly, Matt realizes that Foggy’s scent is close and Foggy’s warmth is spread all across his back from where he’s pressed up against him. 

Did they fall asleep studying on Matt’s bed again? But they shouldn’t—Matt’s been trying not to—

‘But it’s okay,’ dream-logic reassures him, and Matt relaxes because _it is_ , isn't it? It is okay. For once, can't he relax and have something like this, let something be easy? All the good reasons why he shouldn't all seem so far away right now. It’s Foggy in his bed, and who else would Matt want in his bed if not Foggy? Matt doesn’t remember why he’s been trying to set boundaries in the first place. Matt should be everywhere that Foggy is, and vice versa. There’s no reason good enough to keep him from feeling the effervescent pleasure fizzing along his spine, radiating outward from every place where Foggy is touching him. Why has he been fighting this?

Matt had thought he was wearing a t-shirt a second ago, but he isn’t now and neither is Foggy. He doesn’t ask where the shirt went or why. There’s skin on skin, uninterrupted down the entire length of Matt’s back. He can feel everywhere he and Foggy are connected and he suppresses a moan. It simultaneously feels like an inch and a mile; somehow, it’s too little and too much at the same time.

Matt had thought Foggy was asleep against him, but there’s a hand suddenly making its way along Matt’s chest and an arm wrapping sinuously over Matt’s waist. Foggy’s skin is smooth, but Matt can feel the tiny apertures between the intermittent scales on Foggy’s forearm. The scales are tiny, flexible, and soft. Matt imagines they reflect the light like pearls set into Foggy's skin.

“Matt…” comes Foggy’s sleep-rough voice, and Matt thinks that may be the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

Foggy’s hand is smoothing over Matt’s abdomen now, making its slow, circuitous way up his chest. Foggy’s scent is getting stronger, and Foggy smells like the sea, a day at the beach where the sun is high overhead, but there’s just enough shade. That’s what being with Foggy is like, anyway. It’s like having the sun shining right on him, shining just for him, but not too hot—just right. That scent, _that feeling_ , it’s wrapping Matt up in a cocoon and it’s… good. 

‘Good’ seems like too small and common a word to encompass all that Matt is experiencing right now, all that Foggy is making him feel. Matt’s so relaxed. He’s safe with Foggy, safe and warm and weightless. Matt’s brain scrambles for a word, but it’s just… _good._

Matt hopes it’s Saturday. It’ll be a crime if it’s not Saturday. If they have to get up and go to classes any time soon, Matt… won’t. He just won’t. 

Foggy shifts behind him—rising onto his elbow, Matt’s brain supplies—but Matt’s fine with that as long as Foggy isn’t leaving the bed. It’s okay. Matt is wrapped in Foggy and immersed in his scent.

Then Foggy’s wandering hand splays wide and settles over one side of his chest, hot, his long hair falls down to tickle the back of Matts's neck, and Foggy is saying Matt’s name from so close to Matt’s ear that Foggy’s lip brushes against it. Then it’s more than okay. 

Matt tries to smother his moan by rolling forward and burying his face into his pillow, but Foggy won’t let him go, and it comes out loud and uninhibited in their room.

Foggy chuckles, and Matt wants to turn over and breathe Foggy’s name into his ear, see if it takes Foggy apart the way it has done to Matt. There’s fin-like webbing rimming both of Foggy’s ears, and sound echoes around them in a strange way. It’s one of the features from Foggy’s bluefish form that he can’t suppress, lacks the control to, and he’s complained to Matt countless times about how delicate they are. Matt wants to lick a stripe up one of Foggy’s ears, see if he can maybe make Foggy moan this time, see if he can turn Foggy’s bane into a benefit.

Foggy’s saying something behind him. It is unintelligible. At first, Matt thinks it’s too low for him to hear, but no, that doesn’t make sense. Then he thinks that maybe it’s in a different language. Matt knows a few languages; Hell’s Kitchen is diverse, and he’s got some Spanish, Polish, and Italian in his repertoire, even a passable amount of Mandarin. Matt still doesn’t understand what Foggy is mumbling. Maybe it’s Punjabi?

But no, still, that’s not right, it’s a sound—

Matt wakes up to his alarm, which is unfortunately not Foggy's warm breath in his ear. There’s no scent of Foggy in the apartment and, for a few seconds, it’s jarring. There’s warmth against Matt’s back, but it’s just from the bruising he had sustained the night before, being slammed into the side of a shipping container. That dream had been so intimate. Matt's hard, but that's something he only notices absently as he puts a hand on the sheets beside him. They're cool, just as Matt had expected, but still... for a moment, the sense of loneliness is so strong that it chokes him, seizes the breath in his lungs, so acute that it's painful. It's another long moment before he can shake it off.

Matt taps his clock to check the time. He rolls out of bed at the response. If he’s quick about it, he can shower and be dressed in time to intercept Foggy on his walk to work. Matt knows he’s slept too late to grab coffee from the bakery that Foggy likes, but perhaps he can try for tomorrow. Foggy would be surprised, and happy, and might give Matt one of those squeezing hugs that always seem to mark the beginning of a very good day.

Matt is showered, dressed, and out of his apartment in time to catch Foggy. He waits in front of the bodega until Foggy passes, and he smells Foggy before he even hears his footsteps. 

Foggy stops in front of Matt when he sees him standing there, cane resting lightly against his leg.

“Mr. Nelson,” Matt says in greeting, a small smile curving his lips and tilting his head in acknowledgment. 

Finally, he can smell Foggy, and it’s just like the dream. The sun and the sea. Matt senses the warmth from Foggy’s arm as he walks beside him, which only makes it that much better. The heat from the cup of coffee Foggy has folded into Matt's hand is much stronger, more aggressive, but the warmness radiating from Foggy is gentler and sweeter. 

“Good morning, Matt,” Foggy replies, taking Matt’s arm and hooking his left hand around the crook of Foggy’s right elbow. Foggy's carrying a tray with another cup of coffee, and it smells dark and sugary—real sugar—just how Karen likes hers. “How’d you sleep?”

Matt wonders if that is supposed to be code for ‘how badly did you beat up the crime factions of our neighborhood last night’ or if Foggy actually wants to know how Matt slept. Matt focuses more intently on Foggy and looks for a tell, but besides the breeze bringing him a stronger scent of Foggy’s conditioner, there’s nothing.

“It was good.” Matt replies eventually, carefully. He had learned something new, anyway, so technically it had been a good night for him. Productive, at least.

Foggy makes a sound at this and folds a hand over Matt’s on his arm. As tactile as he and Foggy often are, it’s normally through the barrier of at least one layer of cloth. This is skin on skin, Foggy’s cool scaled fingers sliding over Matt’s smooth ones. It’s nice. Matt rests a bit more of his weight on Foggy’s arm and leans into him further.

Matt had not noticed the tight feeling in his chest, but he feels it unravel the further he walks with Foggy.

The sidewalk is pretty busy, lots of people starting their day at this time of morning, but when they are finally out of hearing distance Foggy leans closer and says, “Your knuckles are pretty bruised up. Can I assume that means you stopped some dastardly deeds last night?”

“Do you really want to know?” Matt asks, surprised, though he can’t keep the pleased smile off of his face. He’s happy that he did, in fact, stop some dastardly deeds, but he’s also pleased that Foggy seems to be taking a not-negative interest in Matt’s night time activities. All of Foggy’s previous questions had been not-so-subtly barbed, which Matt knows is due in large part to how, justifiably, hurt Foggy had felt that Matt had kept such a large secret from him. 

Matt hopes this might be progress towards truly reconciling though, and he’s aware that the smile crossing his mouth is a lot sharper than the one he typically employs during the daylight hours. It’s the devil’s smile. 

They don’t pause at the entrance to their building. Foggy removes his hand from Matt’s as they walk inside the building. Matt’s fingers are still imbued with the heat from Foggy’s fingers, but he immediately misses them anyway.

They are walking up the stairs to their office, arms still linked. Matt can hear the rasp of Foggy's hand as it trails along the stair rail. Foggy's not putting much weight on the railing, but rather leaning toward Matt, so it must be something he's doing more out of habit than because he needs the support.

“You’d better drink that coffee, fast,” Foggy says instead of answering Matt's question, but his tone is still light. “I didn’t get one for Karen and you’d better not tell her I got you coffee or there’ll be no working with her.”

Matt gasps, “You know I can’t keep secrets from Karen, Foggy. I’m an open book.”

Foggy tenses at that and Matt regrets the word choice. He’s pretty sure he knows what Foggy’s thinking right now. How it’s clear that Matt _can_ keep secrets from Karen; how he’s doing it right now.

“An open book? In a secret code, maybe.” Foggy says, opening the office door and stepping inside. “Speaking of, I wanted to talk to you about Mr. Damody’s case. You know, the butcher who came in last week? Good morning, Karen.”

Foggy releases Matt and waves hello to Karen. He approaches her desk and sets the cup of coffee he had been carrying in front of her. Karen, who Matt can tell is on the phone, breathes a quick thank you at Foggy and then replies to the person on the line. Woman, Matt can hear that much. On the edge of distress, but Karen had likely talked her down in the few minutes she had been speaking to her. 

Matt remembers Mr. Damody. He is a proud man who had come to their office last week about his son, who had been arrested during a police raid of a known mob warehouse. Mr. Damody had been sure that his son was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Since his son had been inside the warehouse with the drugs when the police had raided it, the circumstances of the arrest looked pretty bad. 

The police have had their hands full with the mob, especially lately. The mob activity has only increased since Matt put Fisk away, and there has been more uncoordinated scrabbling for turf than Matt had expected. It hasn't taken them long to start trying to assert their dominance—Matt can still remember taking Fisk down in that alleyway once the man had escaped the police cavalcade. It’s recent enough that his body still remembers everything: from sensations as strong being slammed repeatedly into the grimy fire escape hanging over them as they grappled, to as soft as the rasp of Fisk's crocodile scales over the reinforced material of Matt's gloves. Fisk had been so strong even as a man, so when he had shifted fully into his reptilian form, Matt had not known that he could win that fight. One snap from those power jaws and sharp teeth and the fight would've like ended there. Matt had considered shifting into his clouded leopard form, but had ultimately decided not to. There had been enough people in the vicinity and his species was widely recognized. Also, his armor had still been new to him, and it would have taken time to extricate himself from it. That might have been difficult with paws and a tail, and would have cost Matt precious seconds that he really could not have afforded. He hadn't wanted to risk it.

It’s Foggy's voice that breaks him out of his memories. 

"You okay, buddy?" He says, fleetingly grasping Matt’s shoulder on his way to his office. 

Matt is already leaning toward him before he can catch himself, pressing into Foggy’s brief touch. It's gone too soon and leaves Matt floundering a little. He tries to stop any of what he’s feeling from showing on his face. He's pretty good at that, actually—much better than controlling the other instinctual responses he has around Foggy. Matt doesn’t want to worry Karen, who’s still in the room and way too observant, or worse, worry Foggy, who would come back and fuss and probably not be put off by a mere “I’m fine” which is honestly all Matt is capable of right now.

Foggy had touched Matt's shoulder in support, in camaraderie, in friendship, Matt reiterates to himself as he walks into his own office and settles behind his desk. What his instincts are telling him—cross the hall, pull Foggy from his chair, press him into the wall, scent him so Matt knows, caress him so Foggy knows, mark him so everyone knows—it's inappropriate both for work and for his and Foggy's current relationship. Their current relationship which is friendship... best-friendship, which Matt would never purposely sabotage in the way that his instincts are urging him to.

Camaraderie, Matt reminds himself. Matt can do camaraderie. 

For all that he tells himself that, Matt can't get Foggy out of his thoughts for the next few minutes—he can still smell him from across the hall, and he doesn't smell enough like Matt—and ends up having to distract himself by trying to organize what he had heard last night into a plan he can follow-up on.

Matt keeps telling himself that the urges he has—to make sure Foggy has more than coffee for breakfast, to make sure Foggy is warm enough until their landlord can fix their heating, to stay in some sort of physical contact with Foggy at all times—those are just his instincts. 

Matt studiously ignores the fact that the human part of him never wants to be apart from Foggy, either. 

_Camaraderie_ , Matt thinks, more forcefully this time. He can do that. He can protect Foggy until someone comes along who actually deserves him. There's a burning in Matt's chest as he thinks it, and there's not truly anyone who's good enough for Foggy, but Matt's good at denial; it's one of his skills. No one deserves Foggy, but... Foggy deserves someone. Someone who isn't a bundle of issues like Matt, someone who makes good decisions. Someone who can be there for Foggy whenever Foggy needs him.

Foggy needs someone who doesn't have the devil in him. Hell's Kitchen needs the devil in Matt, though, and so Matt gets back to making himself useful and tries not to hear Foggy’s heartbeat from the next room over.


	2. Your Visage is a Concerto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy may not know everything. That does not mean he doesn't know anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some Star Trek Spock/Kirk references in this chapter. It's just for brief pop culture references and likely won't be mentioned in future chapters.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Foggy sighs as he slides the doggy bag full of his leftovers into his fridge. The refrigerator is mostly empty, and the bare whiteness of the exposed innards is so stark that it’s almost blinding. The lid of the lonely Styrofoam container reflects the light from fridge’s interior lightbulb. Foggy had hoped that the offering would have helped to lessen how pathetic his refrigerator’s contents appear, but it doesn’t.

All day, Foggy has been trying not to think too hard about the hurdles in their new case. He had met with Mr. Joseph Damody and his son, Joseph Jr., to go over the both his side of the story and the statement the young man had given the police. Foggy had done well to repress his sigh as he had shown them both out of his office at the end of the meeting.

They don’t have a solid case. Foggy knows he will have to do some digging, but thankfully the situation is not hopeless. Foggy is good at his job and has faith in his own skills.

It’s Damody Jr. that might be the problem.

While his father’s mood had been fairly stable the entire meeting, the younger man had some strange mannerisms. He had been twitchy to start with, and then strangely flirty, then had gone back to fidgeting when that had not seemed to win Foggy to his cause. The man was all over the place, and if Foggy had not already known he was innocent, the guy’s behavior would have likely convinced him he was lying. He can’t put the guy on the stand; they’ll lose all credibility, no matter what the facts actually are.

If the man always acts that way, it may be detrimental for him to testify during his own case. He was caught at the scene of the crime, and though no one actually saw him handling the drugs, all of the evidence is already against them. They don’t need even more roadblocks.

Foggy pulls a beer from the refrigerator. He closes the door, then leans against the counter and presses the cool bottle to his forehead. He sighs again and closes his eyes.

That had not been the only thing that had bothered Foggy today.

Foggy had gone to check in with Karen at some point during the meeting with the Damody’s—though it had really only been an excuse to allow him to steal a few moments to compose his thoughts and exchange the stifling atmosphere of his office for a brief breath of fresh air. As Foggy had stepped into the hallway outside of his office, he had run into Matt. That was not strange in itself; they had a fairly small office. It was just weird that Matt, who was generally unruffled at most things that would send other people running away screaming, had been visibly shaken and stuttered something about pheromones before practically throwing himself back into his own office and shutting the door.

Matt has been acting weird lately. He always seems like he has a lot on his mind, but recently Matt has been looking super stressed. The bags under his eyes are almost as dark as the finger-shaped bruises peeking over his collar, and they are noticeable enough that Foggy can still see them despite Matt’s glasses.

Foggy keeps meaning to talk to him about it, but it is difficult when he doesn’t have anything tangible to bring up. Mentioning a visible bruise or scrape and then asking Matt to take it easy would be simple and straightforward. This isn’t a bruise, though, and Matt is always so careful to maintain distance between his nighttime activities and his daytime… rest of his activities. Foggy’s not sure if it’s Daredevil stuff that’s haunting his friend, or not.

It has never been difficult for Foggy to make friends, but he’s only ever had one best friend. He’s friendly but he has always played his cards close to his chest. Even when Foggy had first met Matt and realized that he could definitely become friends with his new roommate, he had not expected their personalities to be so compatible.

Before Matt, ‘best friend’ was just some lofty phrase Foggy had never really had any use for. After Matt, there wasn’t a part of Foggy’s life that was the same as before. Matt was ingrained in Foggy’s school life, social life, and family life—his parents had even taken to asking after Matt in their weekly calls.

In these post-college days, Foggy’s mom has mentioned on several occasions how Foggy and Matt can adopt kids once they’re “ready” and his sister has been calling him Foggy Nelson-Murdock for years. Foggy had always been grateful the she had not done so where Matt could hear, but given his newfound knowledge of the range of Matt’s abilities, Foggy is pretty sure it’s pointless to hope Matt has never heard it.

Regardless of his embarrassment and the secrets between them in the last few months, Matt is Foggy’s most important person. Foggy needs to know what’s going on with Matt, and he needs to know why it is a problem, and then he needs to fix it.

Foggy puts the Matt-problem and the Damody-problem to the side for now. All day, he’s been letting himself mull them both over in tiny increments because he knows he has the nasty habit of falling into a perpetual cycle of stressing himself out if he lingers too long over his problems.

Foggy likes to think of himself as a fixer. He sees a problem and he resolves it. He uses whichever tools he has to hand in the moment, whether it’s repairing a leaky faucet or interpersonal relationships. He has found that sometimes the most unlikely tools that are the most effective. Lately, the most unlikely tool has been his new cooking class.

Before Foggy had come to know that the wan cast to Matt’s features was due more to his illegal vigilantism than lack of nutrients, he had suspected that Matt was simply not eating enough. He had determined to start bringing food to the office, full of vitamins and love and then make Matt take regular breaks in order to receive the vitamins (and the love).

Foggy had not known how to cook anything at that point. He had been pretty optimistic that he could make a pot of rice if pressed, but anything beyond would have likely ended in a call to the fire dept, _at best_. His inability to make any meal that wasn’t cobbled together remnants of leftover takeout had never previously been a problem, but Foggy soon found that it was difficult verify how many nutrients were in food that comes in carryout containers. Thus, he had begun taking cooking classes.

The classes give Foggy something to do with his mind and his hands. It keeps him busy. Most importantly, it keeps him focused on something other than his own issues, which gives him the time and distance he needs in order to come up with a solution. Foggy can’t overanalyze the pauses in Matt’s speech when he’s chopping vegetables and herbs or he will probably end up slicing something he shouldn’t or getting very uneven results. He can’t worry about lack of witnesses while he’s searing meat or else he’ll end up with the acrid scent of burning food. That had already happened once, and the smell had lodged in his nostrils so strongly that even a full shift and submersion in his bathtub had not entirely dispelled it.

So, Foggy focuses on cooking whatever they are making this week, and the answers to his problems usually just show up along the way.

The great thing is, Matt does eat better. Strangely enough, Matt looks better rested, as well. He has color in his face again, and the hollows of his cheeks are less pronounced. Matt has always filled out his shirts well, but now his shoulders are no longer drooping from fatigue. They are just small signs, but they go a long way to reassuring Foggy.

Not only has Matt’s health improved, but Foggy is also learning more about Matt’s tastes. Matt tends to like simpler dishes, crafted with a few quality ingredients rather than complicated fare with a laundry list of spices and herbs. If he doesn’t count the bruises (and Matt is pretty good at getting those in places that are not casually visible, thankfully) Matt looks the best that Foggy’s ever seen him, and that’s saying a lot.

While he was learning tonight’s dish, Foggy had kept thinking about how he would love to make it for Matt. It was simple and straightforward, which Matt tended to favor. Would Matt enjoy the way the citrus tickled his tastebuds? Would it make him smile and lick his unfairly red lips? Or would he smirk instead, because he could hear how hard Foggy’s heart was beating, nervously awaiting Matt’s judgment? Foggy could imagine how Matt’s mouth might curl around the fork, stretched thin in amusement—probably at Foggy’s expense—and leave only a thin smear of cream sauce behind on the tines.

It would take a stronger man than Foggy to resist a vision like that, so he calls Matt.

“Hello?” Matt answers, on the second ring.

“Hey, Matt, it’s me. What are you up to?” Foggy feels himself smile involuntarily and tries not to let it creep into his voice. It’s one thing to be completely besotted with his best friend; it’s another thing to sound like it. “Are you busy?”

There is the light sound of shuffling in the background, maybe paper or fabric, and then Mat answers, “Not really, just doing some digging on the provenance of those drugs our client was busted with.”

“What, why?” Surprised and not sure how this would help their case, Foggy asks. “How are you thinking of factoring that into his defense?”

“What?” Matt responds, like Foggy’s question was unexpected, and Foggy realizes that maybe Matt was not even considering their client when he decided to start his research there. After all, Matt isn’t just Matt; after hours, he puts on a skintight Halloween costume and throws punches at baddies.

“Wait, is this about you being He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Is this for your extracurricular activities?” Foggy tries not to let the suspicion leak into his tone. It is pretty potent though, so he probably fails.

Foggy does not like to think of Matt out at night in New York, purposefully seeking out the criminal element without any backup, no matter how quickly Foggy had been able to come to terms with the reality of Matt’s enhanced senses. That the one person Foggy can’t imagine his life without is out on the streets with nothing but cloth between his fragile (ninja?) flesh and all the bullets and bad intentions their city can throw at him. It catches his breath in his throat and makes something curdle in Foggy’s stomach.

Matt’s silence does nothing to dispel Foggy’s concerns. It is not quite a confirmation, but only just. Suddenly Foggy’s mouth is moving without his direction and words are emerging without his approval.

“Well, if you don’t mind having a little company, I was thinking of stopping by. Maybe we could brainstorm together?”

The breath Matt releases on the other end of the line tells Foggy just how relieved he is that Foggy is letting him off the hook with that line of questioning, but the hesitancy in Matt’s voice tells Foggy that his still wary. “Foggy…”

“There’s something we made at class tonight that I’d like to try out on you, heightened senses and all. I figured if you were free, I’d try out your super tongue. I-I mean—your enhanced sense of taste.” Matt emits a strangled noise and Foggy backtracks.

Matt audibly clears his throat, but his voice is still unstable as he responds, “Uh, yeah, okay, Foggy. I’ll… see you when you get here.”

Foggy knows better than to expect Matt to have the ingredients on hand, no matter how simple the recipe. He grabs the extra virgin olive oil out of the cabinet and stops by the bodega between their apartments to pick up the other ingredients.

When Matt had found his apartment, a very nice space in a luxury high rise, Foggy had been extremely excited for him. Before that, they had both been looking for their own respective apartments. It had taken months to find a place that satisfied Matt, and Foggy had been on the verge of suggesting they just continue to room together. And maybe… maybe do _more_ together, too.

If they had decided to share an apartment, then Foggy may have been subjected to even more late night study/research-cum-cuddle sessions and shirtless post-shower Matt so... phew. Foggy had really dodged a bullet, there. Who wanted to see Matt Murdock half-naked anyways? And it was easier for Foggy to repress his unrequited feelings if he had a bit of distance from the object of his affections, and that in turn helped him put off the inevitable rejection.

So, basically the building had saved Foggy and Matt’s friendship, and Foggy reiterates this to himself as he approaches it and tries to suppress the feelings of hatred he has for the huge, beautiful high-rise.

Matt must have been waiting for him near the door, because he buzzes Foggy in as soon as Foggy rings the bell.

“Hey, buddy,” Foggy leans in to bump his shoulder to Matt’s in greeting and heads towards the kitchen.

“Hey, Foggy. Come on in,” Matt says, pointedly staring into the open doorway. There is a smile on Matt’s face though, not the polite-harmless-smile but the warm grin Matt seems to reserve for people he is actually fond of, so Foggy knows that they’re okay.

Matt’s apartment is much neater than Foggy’s and probably cleaner, too. He has a few knickknacks here and there and a calendar in braille hanging on the wall near the kitchen. Foggy sets the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. He begins pulling out all of the pots and pans that he needs, mentally arranging the process of cooking the dish.

Matt goes to the refrigerator and reaches in, “Want a drink?”

Even though he has just had one at home, Foggy accepts the one Matt holds out to him, “Thanks, man.”

Matt nods and retreats to a bar stool on the other side of the countertop. He is clearly listening to Foggy’s movements as he bustles around Matt’s kitchen, preparing the pasta. At one point, Foggy idly holds a hand over the boiling pot of pasta and watches the steam fog up the reflective surface of his scales. Foggy sees Matt raise his head and turn towards him, so he quickly withdraws his hand. No need to worry Matt, after all.

By the time Foggy is putting their pasta into bowls—more in Matt’s bowl than Foggy’s, since he had some earlier—Matt’s chin is resting on his hands, elbows supporting his head on the marble countertop, and eyes closed. His breathing is soft and slow enough that Foggy wonders if Matt is actually sleeping. He softly taps Matt’s cheek with the back of his finger.

Matt’s eyes open blearily, and a soft sleepy sound falls from his mouth, “Bleugh?”

Foggy chuckles and grabs both bowls, taking them over to set on the low table in Matt’s living room. “Come on, Matty. If you take too long, I might just eat yours, too, and that would completely defeat the purpose of me coming all the way here.”

That warm smile flits across Matt’s lips again for a moment, and then he’s rising lethargically from the bar stool.

Most times, it’s easy to forget that Matt’s stockiness is due in most part to muscle, but then there are moments like this one to remind Foggy just what Matt might be packing underneath those unassuming button-down shirts and dress slacks. It reminds Foggy in that moment that Matt is cat shifter, even though Foggy has never seen him shift fully into his cougar form. While Matt generally does not show any traits of his animal form, it is impossible to forget that he is a natural predator while his muscles unfurl like a great cat rising up to stalk its prey.

It takes more effort than Foggy would admit to in order to reign in his reactions to Matt’s unwitting display.

When Matt turns his back to Foggy and bends at the waist, Foggy can’t be blamed for dropping their bowls. Thankfully, their meal simply falls the scant few inches to the table and the only consequence is that the silence in the apartment is broken by the loud thunk of the porcelain hitting the wood. Foggy hopes his instructor’s Italian nonna will forgive him for treating her sacred recipe this way, but he is sure she would understand. Not only is he Matt, who charms everyone effortlessly like that is his super power, but Matt’s also got an ass so fine it could ward off the Evil Eye, so Foggy is sure he can’t be blamed.

“Foggy?” Matt’s voice is markedly less groggy and it reminds Foggy to get himself under control. It would be completely mortifying if Matt knew what Foggy was thinking right now, or even worse—what if Matt could smell it?

Foggy clears his throat. “Sorry, let me just get these set up. Can you grab some forks for us?”

Foggy is proud to say that he holds himself together after that, even when Matt makes appreciative noises at the taste of the linguine.

“This is _really_ good, Fog,” Matt moans around his mouthful.

“Uh huh,” Foggy replies, placing one of Matt’s throw pillows over his lap. Hopefully it will dull the heat signature from little Foggy so Matt won’t pick up on it with his ninja heat-seeking voodoo.

They end up talking about the case for a little while, though Matt seems reluctant to share whatever information he found between the time he started looking into the warehouse and Foggy’s arrival at his apartment. It practically screams ‘this is the Daredevil-sandbox and you’re not invited’ so Foggy leaves it mostly alone. He mentions his concerns about putting Damody Jr. on the stand and Matt suggests—easy as pie—that Foggy try using a character witness instead.

Which… could actually work.

“This is the reason we’re partners in crime! Well,” Foggy pauses when Matt’s expression suddenly blanks, “partners in law-abiding-ness… when those are the pants we’re wearing at the moment. Speaking of pants, are you planning on dressing up as a Hot Tamale tonight, or…”

Matt’s head droops a bit at Foggy’s question, though not enough to fully hide the guilty expression crossing his features. “Ah… I’ll go out a little later. I’d hate to dine and dash. You up for a movie?”

At this point, Foggy has already gathered their dirty dishes and is commencing with after-dinner clean-up. “Yeah, sounds good. You’ve already got me cooking and cleaning for you—why not give you the divine gift of my insightful commentary as well? See if Cinderella is on, anywhere. I’m feeling remarkably empathetic at the moment.”

Matt lets Foggy’s remark go ignored in favor of turning the television on. He doesn’t flinch even as Foggy begins chanting “Cinderelly, Cinderelly,” in his best attempted personification of a mouse.

Fortunately, Matt has an open kitchen, which allows Foggy to voice his opinions on what they are actually going to watch. There is a special rendition of the musical Wicked on a public station, and Foggy flirts with the idea of cajoling Matt into watching it. Ultimately, he vetoes it; Matt punishes himself enough that he doesn’t need Foggy contributing to his quota of suffering.

After a nice bout of movie channel-surfing, including three shows about superheroes, a marathon of The Munsters, and ironically a classic Disney movie (Snow White, unfortunately, not Cinderella, which Foggy bemoans the unfairness of for approximately three minutes straight) they settle on a show instead. There is a rerun of Star Trek, the original series, just beginning as Foggy finishes putting the clean dishes away.

“Oh, I like this one!” Foggy says, settling onto the couch next to Matt, unconsciously close enough that the side of his thigh has an uninterrupted line of contact with the side of Matt’s. “It’s right after the Enterprise travels to this new galaxy. At first, they think the inhabitants are invisible, but it turns out they’re just too small to see with the naked eye. Have you seen it?”

Matt is silent for a moment, then replies, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Star Trek.”

“What, for real?” Foggy says, incredulous, “Man, not even reruns? I am so sorry, Matt. I have really failed you as a friend. We need to rectify that right now.”

Foggy begins to relate the basics of the starship Enterprise and her crew, while the show plays in the background. By the time that Foggy has finished explaining Spock and Kirk’s friendship and the sensitive balance of their unspoken romantic affair (which is canon, Foggy insists), the inhabitants of the planet have drugged the starship’s exploration party and taken them captive.

“It’s clandestine,” Foggy says, in a tone of reverence.

Matt who had been looking much more relaxed after a good dinner and Foggy’s great conversation, suddenly reaches behind himself to pull one of the throw pillows into his lap. Foggy can’t help but watch as Matt’s hands come to rest lightly on the pillow, laxly hugging the sides.

“But why would it be clandestine? If they were already infamous rivals and then became infamous best friends?” Mat asks. The sound of the phaser beam battle commencing on the screen causes Matt to turn his head sharply towards the TV.

“They’ve got these guns that shoot lasers, and they’re called phasers. They’re having a battle right now, that’s them ‘peum-peum’-ing. But to answer your question, it’s because Kirk’s an unmated horse shifter,” Foggy says, and continues to explain even after Matt makes a knowing “ah” of acknowledgement, “which means he could encounter a suitable mate and imprint on them at any time. Even if he and Spock started something, the possibility would always be hanging over their heads. And Vulcans mate for life, so… it wouldn’t be something they could do casually.”

“Man. That sounds… tough,” Matt says stiltedly, and the odd tone distracts Foggy from the episode. He glances at Matt from the corner of his eye and sees that Matt hands ae no longer relaxed. They are gripping the pillow tightly enough that the fabric has bunched up around his hands and Foggy thinks he may be seeing the polyfill burst through the seams at any second.

“Uh… Matt?” At Foggy’s concerned voice, Matt turns towards him. He gives Foggy a watery smile that does nothing to reassure him. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Matt says, and turns back to the show.

Foggy studies Matt’s profile for a few long moments before turning uneasily back to Star Trek. Foggy had known that something was bothering Matt for some time, now, but he hadn’t wanted to nag Matt about it. If Matt needed to talk, then he would come to Foggy, and they would talk. He couldn’t just push his way into Matt’s life anymore, can he? They are both adults now, and leading separate lives.

At Columbia, Foggy had basically infiltrated every part of Matt’s life. He had been so enamored of Matt—they were so compatible and had just gotten along so well—that Foggy had always wanted to spend time with him. He had always wanted know what Matt had been up to, how he was feeling, etc. So even though Matt was a very private person, it still had not taken long until Foggy had known Matt’s schedule like the back of his hand, had gotten to know Matt’s social circle well enough that it was practically Foggy’s social circle too, and had known Matt’s problems as intimately as his own. He had learned to tell Matt’s emotions not only by his face, but also the tone of his voice and gestures, just as Matt had continually seemed to intuit Foggy’s own feelings.

When Foggy had woken up one day to find his and Matt’s lives irrevocably intertwined, he had initially been pleased. Then, he had realized how strange it was to be this close to a _friend_ , even his best friend. As much as he and Matt liked each other, Foggy knew the guy needed his space, and smothering him would only ruin their friendship. When they had graduated and left the dorms, Foggy had vowed himself it wasn’t the only transition he would make.

It had been then that Foggy had decided to take a step back from Matt, give his friend some distance. They weren’t kids anymore, and they would mature better if they weren’t always in each other’s pockets. Foggy could make new friends, devote himself to his profession, and pine after Matt from afar instead of at close-range. Matt could get out and meet people, date, and maybe even settle down. They would go out in the world and some part of their lives would finally be independent of each other. It had hurt, and left Foggy feeling anchorless, but he had told himself what he had done was healthy.

It was supposed to be good for their friendship; instead, it had allowed Matt to lie to Foggy’s face about his safety and keep his alter-ego a secret for months, right under Foggy’s nose. It was a large part of the reason that Foggy was so infuriated at finding out Matt was the devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He should have known—would have, if he hadn’t imposed this stupid distance between them, hadn’t insisted upon it when it was clear they were both suffering for it.

Foggy had promised he would not push Matt for intimacy, but now that it has led to their current situation, Foggy has to reconsider. It feels like there is a gap between him and Matt, like they’re reaching for each other across a canyon.

Which is more important? That he and Matt be able to healthily live independently, or that they mend their broken friendship? Foggy wonders if he should follow logic, or follow his heart. He reflects that his presence at Matt’s apartment tonight may already be the answer. But still, it’s another issue entirely whether he should wait for Matt to come to him for help with whatever is causing his to look so pale and drawn these days, or just pry into Matt’s affairs like he always has before?

Silence had descended over the room while Foggy attempted to come to a decision. Before he can, Matt breaks it.

“That’s honestly a realistic problem. What do you think they should have done?” Matt’s voice is soft but not hesitant.

It takes Foggy a moment to pull himself out of the mire of his introspection and remember what he and Matt had been talking about. Then he remembers: Spock, Kirk, imprinting on mates, that whole shebang. Even once Foggy does catch up, something seems strange. Matt asks the question with a kind of quiet determination that makes Foggy wonder if he’s missed something. It makes him hesitate.

“Fog?” Matt asks after Foggy remains silent, and he brings his knees up to his chest, clutching them and the pillow to him. It’s a position that reminds Foggy of a child in need of comfort, though Foggy can’t think of a reason Matt would feel vulnerable right now. After all, he’s a cougar shifter and they don’t have chosen mates. Unless… maybe Matt is Spock in this situation, not Kirk. Foggy ignores the old pang in his chest that always crops up at the thought of Matt romantically involved with someone else. At least he still has Matt’s friendship; he should focus on being a great friend, not a greedy one, and he’ll start with this. So maybe Matt is interested in someone who has the potential to imprint, but hasn’t yet, and hasn’t imprinted on Matt?

“Honestly,” Foggy answers carefully, “when you love someone, you’re opening yourself to that person. They can make you feel like you’re soaring, but they can also make you feel like you just hit the ground. Love… it’s beautiful but it makes you vulnerable. As romantic as it would have been for them to just go for it, I understand why they wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Matt is clutching the pillow so close now that his mouth is pressed to it, and his response comes out muffled. Foggy can’t hear him clearly, but he thinks Matt sounds a little disheartened. “But… I think they should try. Imprinting isn’t everything.”

“I agree,” Foggy says quickly, wanting to reassure Matt. He feels like he just kicked an injured puppy. “Even if it gets difficult eventually, that definitely doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it. And imprinting… I don’t know. It gets a lot of good press, but it sounds like a nightmare to me. The media likes to romanticize it, and a lot of people fetishize it, but I always kind of feel sorry for the people who have to go through it. You meet someone and in an instant—wham!—and it’s them or no one, forever? Your senses pick someone out for you and that’s it. What if they’re an asshole? What if they’re Hitler reincarnate? You’re just… theirs?”

There is another round of silence after Foggy’s statement until Matt seems to realize that Foggy may be looking for a response. Even then, all he says is, “So that’s how you feel.”

“Matt, seriously, what’s going on with you? Is something wrong?” At Matt’s cryptic answer, Foggy’s concern gets the better of him, and he asks what he has been debating asking all night. “You know, if there’s something going on, you can talk to me, right? You’re not alone, buddy.”

Matt reaches out and lays a hand over Foggy’s forearm. “Thanks, Foggy. I’m fine, I’m just… I’m glad you’re here. I mean it.”

It is obvious that Matt does not want to talk any further about his unconfirmed romance with this mysterious person—if Foggy is reading between the lines correctly and that’s even what is going on. Matt says that he’s fine, but he’s clearly not. However much he bluffs, Foggy knows that ignoring a problem won’t actually make it go away. Despite feeling that Matt is not being completely honest with him, Foggy lets the matter drop. For now.

They watch another episode of Star Trek, practically snuggled together on Matt’s couch. It is pleasantly warm along his right side, where Foggy is pressed against Matt. When that episode of Star Trek ends, an episode of MacGuyver follows it. Neither one of them makes a move to change the channel or turn off the television. Foggy is so cozy and comfortable that he rejects the thought of moving before he even gives it any serious contemplation. He’s close to dozing off. He thinks maybe Matt is feeling the same, but when he looks over at him, he sees his friend is wide awake. Matt’s eyes are open and there is not even a hint of lethargy about him. Matt’s legs are tucked up on the couch on the opposite side from Foggy, and the pillow he had been hugging has ended up discarded on the floor.

Foggy does end up nodding off at some point, though he only realizes it when he wakes up. When his eyes open, he’s viewing Matt’s living room sideways. The TV is off. He’s still warm, but he doesn’t feel Matt beside him. His cheek is mashed up against the seat of Matt’s couch and there’s a respectably sized puddle of drool beneath his chin.

The apartment is dark and silent—or at least as silent at 1AM in New York can be, and as dark as a room can be when it’s right next to a digital billboard.

Foggy rolls to the side and swipes at the trail of drool on his face. He lies there for a moment, but the longer he stays there, the more awake he’s becoming. Matt is not on the couch anymore, but there’s a throw blanket—red—that has been draped over Foggy. Foggy gets up and checks Matt’s bedroom but, as he suspected, Matt is not in the apartment. He had mentioned going ‘out’ later, and Foggy guesses that’s where he is now. Matt’s out being the devil.

Foggy calls Matt’s cellphone, but hangs up when he hears it ring in the other room. Apparently, Matt is unreachable to him right now.

Well, he could go and stand in the middle of the street and scream at the top of his lungs. With his super hearing, Matt might actually be able to hear him. On the upside, Matt would probably pick up on Foggy’s yelling and come running. On the downside, Foggy would be a manipulative asshole and probably come off as a complete psycho to anyone who saw him in the meantime.

Oh, and they’d probably call the police, which meant he would have to face Brett and admit that he was just being excessively clingy over his best friend. And because Brett has a Grade A bullshit-detector, he would know that there was an underlying issue. Then Foggy would have to confess that he was in love with Matt. Knowing his luck, Matt would choose that moment to come around the corner and then their friendship would… change. Most likely for the worse.

So, no. Foggy was never going to do that, but now he _definitely_ won’t, and he has just spent way too much time contemplating a hypothetical situation which will never come to pass. He means to sigh at how ridiculous everything is, but somehow it comes out as a long, frustrated groan instead.

The papers he had brought over to work on are still out on Matt’s table, un-revised and untouched since he had basically ignored them in favor of old TV shows and cuddling. He gathers them up and puts them back into his briefcase. He texts Matt that he’s leaving and locks Matt’s apartment on his way out.

If Foggy feels a little displaced about waking alone in Matt’s apartment, or feels a little lonely walking the few blocks back to his apartment on the relatively empty streets, then he writes it off as just the atmosphere and blames it on the eerie quiet stillness of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to work on this for NaNoWriMo.  
> Please don't hesitate to comment with questions or suggestions.  
> Here's the recipe that I referenced in this chapter: https://www.marthastewart.com/329027/linguine-with-lemon-cream-sauce

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this as soon as I finished it. Editing will be coming swiftly, but it's 3AM so it will have to wait until I sleep and wake up and become a person again. 
> 
> Seriously, I keep spelling Matt with three t's. Good night, guys. XD


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